


do not drown within your own storm

by ivelostmyspectacles



Series: TMA High School AU [3]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Asthma, Asthma Attacks, Bullied Martin, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Hookups, M/M, Protective Tim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-23 14:17:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20009692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivelostmyspectacles/pseuds/ivelostmyspectacles
Summary: But Martin’s gasping to breathe, holding onto the wrist of one of Tim’s offered hands. The other hand’s splayed against his chest, and he’s looking more than a little panicky.“Okay.” Martin’s hand constricts around Tim’s wrist. “O–Okay, I might, um, m–maybe–”“Breathe,Martin.”“M–Might be an asthma attack–” Martin gasps, and Tim shifts his hand to catch Martin’s fingers again.





	do not drown within your own storm

“Ooookay, time to go.”

“What?”

Tim grabs Martin’s hand and pulls. He’s kind of good at adapting to situations quick enough, because he falls into step behind Tim without much provokation, and then they’re both running across the lawn, footfalls muffled by that springtime grass.

“Tim– what are we–”

_“Martin._ When you knock the biggest kid down, you _don’t_ stand there and wait for him to get back up! And you’re _definitely_ not gonna apologize to him for me _punching_ him!!”

“But you didn’t have to–”

“He was _literally_ going to trip you again, Martin, don’t feel bad when I deck him for it– _this way,_ I know a shortcut!”

This is a bit overkill, he knows. He doesn’t like running away from fights but the whole point was that Martin didn’t get hurt, and a three-on-two wasn’t great odds. Probably, Tim could have handled it. But having to look out for himself and Martin– though he knows Martin _could_ take care of himself, if he’d just… _stand_ up for himself– wasn’t his perfect situation, so… they’re running.

Martin looks confounded, still, and a little scared, and something like… exhilarated, maybe. Tim grins at him, and then pulls him through a path broken through old brush to get some distance between them and the bullies.

They go needlessly far, probably, far past where the other would have followed them. Tim finally lets go of Martin’s hand when he doesn’t think he needs to coax him along, and they’re both out of breath when they finally ease down to walking. They’re close to Martin’s street now, and Tim’s laughing at this point, and Martin’s wheezing, but with that tiny little smile that helps to settle Tim’s nerves over the whole thing. Between Jon and Martin both attracting the same group of assholes at school… he won’t pretend Jon and Martin are _fine_ about it, but if he can distract them from it, it’s as good as he thinks he’s gonna get.

“No more– no more of this, y’know? If there’s trouble,” Tim says, “you _tell_ me. You and Jon are just– just alike, I swear to God.”

“Well, it’s not like I can– just– be like, hey, gotta go grab my– fearless, badass friend,” Martin wheezes. “Like, hold on while I leave and come back for you to torment me.”

“Sometimes you can _tell,_ though. Sometimes you know if something’s brewing.”

“Well, yeah.” He turns, and coughs into his arm. “I _didn’t.”_

“Text me, hell, _shriek,_ I don’t care–”

“Y–Yeah…” Martin sucks in another shaky breath, but beams at Tim, and he thinks that’s probably a good sign. No real injuries. Just a scuffed palm and a uniform that needs a wash. Maybe even the mental effects will be slim. 

Tim hopes. “C’mon. I’ll walk you home.”

“O–Okay.”

… huh. “You okay?”

“Yeah! Just, ahaha, a little… out of breath, I think.”

“Yeah?”

“I mean I’m– I’m pretty okay at PE? But I’m still not– y’know.” He waves his hands, and stutters a laugh. His breath whisks in and out with a whistling noise, and… that’s not right. That doesn’t sound at _all_ right.

“Martin?”

“E–Er.” He gives a minute laugh that’s more of a _whimper_ than it is anything else.

“Martin. Hey. Here. Here.” Again, he finds himself thankful for _his_ ability to keep outwardly calm. It’s handy, in tough situations. Those moments where _he_ has to be the bigger person, the one put together, because he’s older and has experienced a lot more in comparison to the other three in their little group of misfits. But Martin’s gasping to breathe, holding onto the wrist of one of Tim’s offered hands. The other hand’s splayed against his chest, and he’s looking more than a little panicky.

“Okay.” Martin’s hand constricts around Tim’s wrist. “O–Okay, I might, um, m–maybe–”

_“Breathe,_ Martin.”

“M–Might be an asthma attack–” Martin gasps, and Tim shifts his hand to catch Martin’s fingers again.

_“Asthma?”_ he repeats. He hears how _incredulous_ he sounds, like Martin’s gone off his rocker, but it’s just– “I didn’t know you–” No, now’s _not_ the time. “Okay. Okay, Martin, where’s your inhaler–” Something– everything– about the look on Martin’s face, vaguely terrified, puts an odd kind of horror into Tim, too. “Martin…”

“I haven’t ~~––~~ I haven’t ~~–––~~ ”

“Okay.” He interrupts. Martin can’t _breathe,_ he doesn’t need to be wasting oxygen on trying to explain. So he doesn’t have an inhaler. He hasn’t needed one, or never had one, or just doesn’t _carry_ one, but Tim’ll figure that out later. He doesn’t know much about asthma. He’s talked Jon through panic attacks, though. They’re not the same thing, but… it’s the only experience Tim’s got here with _not being able to breathe._ “Okay. Martin. Look at me, okay. I need you to sit down. We’re going to sit, alright?”

“Uhhhh– uh huh.”

“Okay. Here, just, yeah.” He’s keeping it together, on the outside. He has to be, because Martin _isn’t_ (and has good reason, _hell)_ and someone has to be calm. Oh, but he’s a bit _terrified._ Jon’s panic attacks scare him. Martin’s asthma attack is no difference, right now. He just wants his friends to be _okay,_ damn it.

But, right now, Martin isn’t. So Tim helps to ease his descent to the ground, still holding onto his hand. He only pulls it away long enough to reach and loosen Martin’s tie, and hastily unfasten the top buttons at Martin’s collared shirt. “Um, so,” Tim says, trying to be as easily conversational as possible. “Try to sit up, if you can. That should help your breathing.”

“Mhmm…”

God, it’s terrible. Anything with _breathing_ always is; Tim doesn’t like the way _wrong_ breathing sounds. Short and jerky and… pained, and painful, because he’s absolutely helpless and he knows the person in distress is helpless, too. They’re both helpless, now.

“Deep breaths,” he says, and holds onto Martin’s hand like he knows what he’s talking about. Maybe he can fool him. He still does have to try to get an answer on some things, though. “Do you– when should I call 999?”

Martin shakes his head quickly.

“How many minutes do I need to be worried over, Martin.” He doesn’t let his tone invite an argument. “Because it’s been…” He taps the display at his wrist to life, and then backtracks. Martin doesn’t need those details. He’ll just panic more. (Two minutes.) “How long before I need to be worried? _Don’t_ be self-sacrificial here, _please._ Just. Don’t.”

Martin stares at him. He’s still struggling to breathe heavy and deep, but his face is pale and not, Tim doesn’t know, _blue_ or something, so that’s a good sign. It has to be a good sign. But Martin still looks miserable, as he takes another deep breath and then licks his lips to speak. “… maybe ten minutes,” he manages, and Tim nods, and rubs his knuckles approvingly.

“Okay. Ten minutes,” he agrees. “Plenty of time. You’re looking better already. Not that you didn’t look good to begin with or anything.”

Martin’s laughter is weak, and _squeaky._ Tim wonders if he imagines Martin might just look a tiny bit _embarrassed_ beneath the agony. He almost hopes. It’s a nice distraction, right? Besides, he’s not lying.

He sits and holds Martin’s hand, and Martin breathes, as slow and as deep as he can. It seems to be helping, he thinks? But the tiny rasping breaths are still putting the odd kind of muted fear into his veins, the kind of fear he can’t let show. Three minutes, four minutes, five. 

Martin looks exhausted, and his fingers are still clutching at his shirt.

“D’you… _have_ an inhaler?” Tim asks. “At all?”

Martin agrees; a tiny nod that puts his hair falling across his forehead again. Tim reaches up to smooth it away, and Martin swallows. “Um– I– I do,” he murmurs. “I still get them. Just… haven’t had an attack for a. Long time.” He is managing better sentences now, so Tim thinks that’s probably good, too. But what does he know? Maybe he’s doing _all_ of this wrong. “Long, long time,” Martin says softly, and then shakes his head a bit.

“It’s at your house?” Martin nods again. Tim continues. “You want me to run and get it? It’s not far, I could probably–”

Martin’s fingers grasp tighter at Tim’s. _“Stay,”_ he gasps, and then seems to realize he’s squeezing the life out of his hand. “Sorry, just– I need you to stay. If that’s… if you can.”

“If I can?” Echoing the sentiment feels so bitter on his tongue. He doesn’t know Martin’s family situation– though he’s been kind of… wondering, lately, but that’s something for later– but how many people have turned away for him to, like… think he’s gonna leave and not come back or something. Or maybe it’s just the asthma attack. God, Tim hopes that it’s just that. “Course I can, Martin. I’m not going anywhere unless you tell me to. Heh, might spend the night, who knows.”

“Oh, God.” Martin’s laugh is a rasp, a choked, wet noise of proper amusement. They’re getting there. “Don’t think my parents would like it…”

“Okay, come stay with me.”

“Ahaha…”

“I’m serious, I think.” He squeezes his hand. “I mean, yeah, I am, I can sleep on the couch–” Martin makes a choked noise, here, and Tim backtracks because, yeah, _Martin._ “Or you can share with me. But you look like you could use someone to look after you, unless, like… you _want_ your parents hovering you?”

“No, I… I don’t need anyone to look after me…” 

_“Let_ someone look after you. Me. Let me, for now. You kinda… you know.” If he’s laughing, it’s just _derisive_ at himself now. “Freaked me out a little. Sooo…”

“Oh… sorry…”

“I’m not trying to guilt-trip you, I’m just telling you. I _do_ worry about you. All of you guys,” he adds, because, _God,_ does he. “And, this might surprise you, but I don’t _really_ know what I’m doing with all this.”

“I should just…” Martin licks his lips, and then utterly _sags._ “I dunno. I’m _tired.”_

“You should take it easy tonight, that’s what you should do.” He’s pressing a bit too hard, but it’s easy to find the chinks in Martin’s armor. (Probably why those bullies pick on him, too.) He figures Martin really needs someone to look after _him,_ sometimes, instead of the other way around. That _wondering_ again, things Tim isn’t comfortable asking about yet. “And I don’t know, if… if the trigger was stress, maybe?” Was that a thing? “You won’t get stressed at my place. No parents. Booze. Awesome beds.”

The laugh this time is stronger. Tim smiles himself, and lets Martin settle against his shoulder.

“I… God, it sounds nice,” Martin whispers. Then he raises his voice, and looks hesitantly up at Tim. “You’d really let me?”

“Martin, you’ve stayed over before.”

“It’s different, I’m… I’m a mess, right now.”

“We’re _always_ a mess, Martin. Just come back to my place. Okay?”

Martin can always say no. Tim can’t _make_ him go. He wouldn’t try to make him, anyway, because choices were always a thing. So selflessly stupid, this one. But he really doesn’t want him to go back home and… whatever. Whatever. Tim can chill. They can chill.

“I’d… yeah,” Martin murmurs. It’s barely above a whisper, like he still thinks he’s inconveniencing him or something. Tim’ll get him to stop believing that, eventually. For now, Martin continues, with a tiny smile and a tired “I’d like that, I think.”

He asks the question he’d saved himself from a moment ago, too. “You _think?”_ But he’s teasing, tapping Martin’s knuckles before finally letting go of his hand. “You okay yet, or you need some more time?”

“I’m… I think I’m okay. I might need, er, bit of help up– my foot’s a bit asleep, yeah– thanks.” Maybe that was a breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding. Martin shifts a little on his feet, and still looks… miserable.

“You sure you’re–” He barely gets half the question out before Martin starts nodding.

“Yeah, as good as I’ll get, for now. I really… really need to… probably lay down, or something, but er– yeah.” For a moment, he looks determined, and then it’s replaced with the usual sheepishness that’s come with something awkward like this. A vulnerable moment. “But I still… should go home. Get some stuff. My, um… inhaler, in case.”

“Yeah.” That would really help next time. He’s really starting to hate sitting by while his friends are struggling to breathe. It’s _really_ not a good feeling. “Good. We’ll get a cab to my place, then. Too far to walk like this.”

“I can pay–”

“I’m not gonna make you pay for a cab after your own _asthma attack,_ Martin, c’mon.”

“But–”

“No.” Besides, they’re all broke. Like him paying is any different than letting Martin pay. It’d just be insult to injury letting him do it. “You sure you can manage getting home for now? I can Uber it and we can just wait?”

“I can walk home. Just–”

“I’ll stay close,” Tim interrupts. “You can lean on me if you want.”

“God, you’ve… you’ve _really_ got every line in the book, don’t you?”

“It’s not like I don’t mean them. And I really _don’t_ use them on everyone. Just the people I care about.”

“Jon and Sasha and Danny.”

“And y– _you,_ of course.” He’s about to lay into him, asthma attack or not, but Martin’s just… smiling. A small thing, still a little pained and definitely still tired, but… joking. Now the joke’s on Tim, and he’s glad.

“Okay, I see. I got it. You’re _lucky,”_ he stresses, “because I was gonna hit you. Just… bap.” He touches his fist to Martin’s arm, a mock punch that Martin actually giggles over, a bit. (He does that sometimes. _Giggles.)_

“Oh, Tim, you wouldn’t hit me right now.”

“No, maybe not right now. _Later,_ though. Later’s unpredictable.”

“Haha… sure, Tim… sure.”

He puts on the charm for Martin’s dad, helping Martin gather up his jammies and a duffel to last the night (or two, or three, if he can make Martin believe he can stay longer) and his inhaler, and a very pointed excuse on why Martin looks terrible. Tim doesn’t comment when Martin spins the lie. Just supplements it, and waits on the doorstep until the cab comes.

“Thanks, though,” Martin says, eventually, when they’re tucked into the cab and he’s curled a little against Tim again. “For… that.”

“Nothing to thank.” There really isn’t. But he’s told him that on other stuff before, too, so he doesn’t really think he’ll believe him this time. Says it anyway. He’d do it all again, too. Probably will, in some regard. Hopefully not another asthma attack, though. “Try to get some rest. Li'l bit to my flat from here.”

“Yeah, I know… but seriously. Thanks.”

He knows the cracks in Martin’s armor. He thinks he’s learning the way to smooth them a bit, too. He offers his shoulder a bit more for Martin’s leaning pleasure, and turns his smile to the opposite window. “Sure thing, Martin.”

_“You are a hurricane of a girl;_ __  
_remember to breathe every once and a while,_ __  
_do not drown within your own storm.”_  
– Emma Bleker

**Author's Note:**

> I mentioned Martin getting bullied Very Briefly in the bullied!Jon one, so ofc my immediate next step was writing it. And then slapping an asthma attack on it because I've been threatening to write that for AGES.
> 
> I love MartinTim... they're so sweet..... especially as teens sobs


End file.
